


Truce

by dweadpiwatemeggers



Series: Emerald and Bronze [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweadpiwatemeggers/pseuds/dweadpiwatemeggers
Summary: In which Commanding Agent du Mortain takes on the additional duty of feeding Detective Langford’s cat while she recovers from the fight with Murphy.
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: Emerald and Bronze [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948069
Comments: 24
Kudos: 39





	Truce

**Author's Note:**

> truce (n.): an agreement between enemies or opponents to stop fighting or arguing for a certain time.

**_The Detective’s Apartment, a few days after the Murphy incident_ **

If someone had asked Commanding Agent du Mortain why he had volunteered to go to the detective’s apartment to feed her cat, the response would have likely been a straightforward, “Because the cat needs to be fed.” A more persistent line of questioning could have been pursued, and they might have gotten the additional information of, “Because the Detective is currently injured, she saved the lives of an entire unit, and her cat needs to be fed.” If that someone had been particularly perceptive, they might have noticed that those statements, while not being lies, may not be the whole truth. Said perceptive someone might then have smiled knowingly, and said nothing further on the subject, because said someone might have also had an idea regarding Agent du Mortain’s feelings towards cats in general, and Detective Langford specifically.

Of course, said perceptive someone did not feel the need to ask any of those questions, because they were fairly certain they already knew the answers. Said perceptive someone was  _ not _ one Agent Farah Hauville, who had been kept deliberately and appropriately distracted when the prospect of feeding the Detective’s cat had come up. 

At any rate, a key to the apartment in question had been duly procured from the team assigned to the cleanup, and Commanding Agent du Mortain lets himself in.

It is a small apartment, he thinks, although, considering its usual occupants were a single person and a small cat, the space is adequate. There is a small kitchen to the left of the entryway, with a partial wall which opens into the living space of table and chairs, couch, bookshelves and television set, all in an old French style. Louis XV, according to Nate. There is a small hallway which leads to the bathroom and her bedroom, which he had only seen the one time, a few days ago. Not that he had been paying a great deal of attention to his surroundings at the time. No matter, he shakes off the thought, her bedroom is irrelevant to the task at hand: feeding Timbit.

Timbit. It’s an odd name, especially considering that there are no other indications that Char- _ Detective Langford _ is otherwise given to whimsey, but considering the small size and round shape of the creature, it could be considered apt. The resemblance to the popular confectionary is understated, but visible. At any rate, if he is to judge based on the direction from which he can hear a feline heartbeat, Timbit is lurking somewhere under the couch. 

That is acceptable, and expected. He had taken his cue from Timbit during the week that Unit Bravo had been living in the apartment; the cat had ignored him, therefore he ignored the cat. And considering the cat’s reaction to Farah, frequent clawings, that was probably for the best. Farah had expressed concern that Timbit was possessed. He did not consider the possibility likely. The cat simply did not like strangers. He could sympathize.

Which makes Timbit’s reaction now quite strange. He comes right up to Adam, sits, looks up at him and meows. The vocalization seems accusatory. Adam shakes his head. A cat cannot make accusations. He is projecting his own guilt about his - Unit Bravo’s - failure to keep the Detective safe. He steps away from the cat, and moves into the kitchen to retrieve the dry cat food from the cupboard under the sink. 

When he straightens, he finds himself eye-to-eye with the cat, who is now perched on the counter. It is just the shape of the cat’s face, surely. The cat is not actually glaring at him. Then the cat meows at him again, and again he gets the sense that the cat is demanding answers.

But the bag of food is in his hand, and no doubt the cat can smell it. It is certainly a more likely answer than the cat requiring a verbal explanation of why the Detective is unconscious in a hospital bed. He shakes what he believes to be the appropriate amount of food into the designated bowl, replaces the stale water with fresh and returns the bag to its storage space.

His duty is complete. He could,  _ should _ , leave, but … it would be remiss of him to say that he has fed the cat, if he does not actually ensure that the cat eats. It has nothing to do with the fact that the apartment still smells of her, of things that belong to her - of coffee and almonds and old books and ink - and how that comforts him. Comforts and disturbs him, that he should find it so comforting. But it has nothing to do with that. It would be unforgivable if Char -  _ Detective Langford _ ’s cat were to starve because he did not stay to check that it had eaten.

He does not have to wait long, as the cat leaps off the counter and begins to crunch on the dry food. Good. The cat is eating, he is now free to go. Except as soon as he turns to leave, the cat stops eating and trots over to him, brushing between his legs. And now he is sitting in front of him again. He looks up and meows once more.

Adam sighs. He squats down, and reaches a hand towards the cat. “I do not know what it is you’re asking of me,” he mutters.

The cat, Timbit, butts his head against Adam’s fingers. He stretches them out and scratches the cat between the ears. “She’s safe now. She’ll be home soon.”

It’s only partly a lie. It might even be true. He wants it to be true. Timbit pulls away and bats at his hand, pins it gently to the floor under his paw, palm up. 

“I won’t let it happen again.” He has the strangest sense that the cat might hold him to his oath as he continues, “You have my word.”


End file.
